


Insanity Starts With Seasonal Menus

by ice_hot_13



Category: Supernatural
Genre: crack!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/pseuds/ice_hot_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas, slightly unusual.</p><p>Crackfic for my sister! No plot or logical thought to be found here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insanity Starts With Seasonal Menus

****“You know what I hate about Christmas?”  
      “I don’t know, Dean. The lines?” Sam guesses, since they’re currently standing in a line. The woman in front of Dean pauses in studying the Starbucks menu and gives them a suspicious look, steps away a little.  
      “It’s the candycane-eggnog-snowflake-flavoured everything!”  
      “Snowflake?” Sam echoes. Sure, he could comment on the intense rage Dean apparently has towards peppermint mochas and eggnog cookies, but at the moment, he’s more interested in what Dean’s eaten that’s snowflake-flavoured. “Wouldn’t that just be like… ice?”  
      “Shut up, Sam.”  
      “Really isn’t your season, is it?”  
      “Yeah, freakin’ Earth Day is more my speed – no, I don’t hate Christmas, I hate everything that comes with it! I hate the stupid seasonal menus, and the long lines, and the stupid wrapping paper with dancing crack-addicted snowmen and –”  
      “Sir?” the barista squeaks from behind her cash register, “can I take your order?”  
      “Black coffee,” Dean barks, then stalks away. Sam sighs, steps up to the register.  
      “He actually wants a peppermint mocha,” Sam says, which is the root of the problem. Dean loves these, and despises having to say it out loud because it sounds sissy to him. “And I’ll have a cappuccino.”  
      He brings the drinks out to the car after they’re ready, finds Dean blasting ACDC and playing violent airdrums against the steering wheel.    
      “Got your – black coffee,” Sam says. He’s such a goddamn good brother; he carries a sharpie for trips like these, and writes BLACK COFFEE over where the barista wrote ‘peppermint mocha.’  
      “Thanks,” Dean mutters, grabs it from him through the car window. “Real man’s drink.”  
      “Uh-huh.” Sam circles around to the other side of the car, gets in. “So, can we get on with our actual job now?” Dean grumbles in response, which Sam can assume means yes.  
      “What’s going on, anyways?” Dean asks after they’ve been driving a few minutes.  
      “There was a murder,” Sam replies, and Dean shakes his head.  
      “Cabin in the middle of the godforsaken wilderness, can’t say I’m surprised.”  
      “It’s in the middle of a bunch of ski resorts, actually,” Sam starts, then huffs out a sigh. “Bunch of friends staying at a lodge, and a housekeeper got pulled up the chimney.”  
      “Fantastic. We the friendly neighbourhood FBI agents?”  
      “Well, one of us is friendly, anyways.”  
      By the time they get to the lodge – after stopping to get Dean a gingerbread latte – it’s late afternoon. “So, what’s your name?” Dean asks Sam before they get out of the car.  
      “Brian Potts. And you’re Ryan Carter.”  
      “Knew a Ryan once,” Dean comments, getting out of the car. “Beat him up.”  
      “How your stories always seem to end.”  
      They walk up to the door, but before they can knock, there’s a banging sound from upstairs, and something goes flying out the window.  
      “The fuck was that?” Dean turns, and there’s a snowboarding boot sitting in the snow. A moment later, it’s followed by a different boot, and then there’s more banging, this time with screeching.  
      “Let me back in!” a guy is howling, sounds like he’s banging on a window. Sam takes a few steps back, and when he looks up, there’s a guy standing on the roof next to a window, banging on it.  
      “Well, this’ll be fun,” Dean mutters. He knocks on the door, and it’s opened by a blonde woman.  
      “Can I help you?”  
      “We’re here to investigate the death of Peter Harrison,” Dean says, as he and Sam flash their badges. “I’m Agent Carter, this is my partner Agent Potts.”  
      “Well, come in,” the blonde opens the door more, letting them into the entry. “I’m Ellen, by the way.”  
      “No Christmas decorations,” Sam remarks.  
      “Yeah, there was a tree. And then there was an incident with juggling socks lit on fire.”  
      “Who’s that dumb?” Dean asks, and the woman rolls her eyes.  
      “I don’t know, everyone? Snowboarding’s an extreme sport. You get extremely crazy people.”  
      “Well, why don’t you start introducing us to the whole crazy bunch,” Dean says, smiles thinly. “How many are there?”  
      “Well, there’s me, Ned, Harley, Cory, and Brock.”  
      “Did you see anything?”  
      “Not a thing. Cory did, though.”  
      “Well, let’s start with him,” Dean says.  
      They get directed upstairs to the rooms, and knock on room four. There’s the sound of hysterical wailing from inside.  
      “Hey,” Dean says to the guy walking down the hall, a tall blonde, “what’s going on in there?”  
      “Is it because of what he saw?” Sam guesses, and the guy arches an eyebrow.  
      “He lost to Harley at COD this morning,” the guy says. “This happens every day.”  
      “Well, I guess we’ll give him a minute. And you are?”  
      “Brock. It’s nice to meet you, Ellen said you’re agents?”  
      “Yes. Did you see anything?”  
      “I didn’t, I was asleep.”  
      They question Brock and then Ellen little more, find out nothing, then question Ned, who seems like he’s drunk, and Harley, who has to be let in from the roof to talk to them, then they go back upstairs to Cory’s room again, this time the door already open.  
      “Hello?” Dean calls, looks in. A barely-eighteen boy is playing COD, and he looks up, stares when he sees them.  
      “Whoa, are you guys like James Bond?”  
      “Something like that. We heard you were a witness?”  
      “Yeah! Oh, my God, it was terrifying. He just got sucked up through the chimney! Like – like there was a demon Santa or something!”  
      “And you saw nothing else?” Sam asks, and Cory shakes his head no.  
      They don’t have much useful information by the time they go back to the hotel. “Like a demon Santa,” Dean mimics, tossing his tie down on the table after his jacket. “These people are lunatics, Sam. Juggling on-fire socks!”  
      “I know you want to try it.”  
      “Not the point!” Dean barks. “We have nothing to go on, and they’re all psychos who think normal includes locking people outside on the roof, keeping a goldfish in a vase and carrying it around like a puppy, and trying to set up a toy train in the snow just to play Godzilla!”  
      “Yeah, because we’re a real great judge of normal,” Sam rolls his eyes. “Can we just get to researching this thing?”  
      Hours of research turn up nothing of use. When they go back to the lodge the next day, though, that Cory kid is sitting on the front steps, eating cereal.  
      “Bond!” he yells when they get out of the car, jumping to his feet.  
      “Is he really-” Sam starts  
      “If one of us is 007, I think it’d be me.” Dean swings his car door shut. Cory comes running over.  
      “I remember something else! What woke me up in the first place! I went to call you, but your number was on the fridge, and Ned removed the door to go sledding, and it was on that.”  
      “Uh, yeah. So what’d you want to tell us?”  
      “I heard dogs on the roof!” Cory waves his arms in the air as if to somehow indicate this, “that’s why I came downstairs, to see if someone was messing around. And that’s when Peter got sucked into the chimney!”  
      “Dogs,” Sam says thoughtfully, because something about this sounds familiar –  
      “Dogs, great,” Dean’s saying, “you hear any kittens in the basement, too?”  
      “We don’t have kittens,” Cory says, like he’s completely bewildered by this, “Harley has a fish, though. It’s name is Julub.”  
      “Dean,” Sam says, “Why don’t you and Cory go, uh, interview in the kitchen.”  
      “Alright.” Dean leads Cory inside, shoots Sam a questioning look over his shoulder. “So, a fish, you say,” Dean says to Cory as they walk away.  
      Sam quickly looks it up online on his phone, and yeah, he’s definitely right. The dogs on the ceiling, the death by chimney, it’s definitely the anti-Claus, what they were researching that time they mistook pagan gods for this thing. This time, though, it’s actually the anti-Claus.  
      He goes back into the house, finds Dean sitting with Cory at the kitchen table. Harley is sitting on the counter, a big vase in his lap. The vase has a bunch of pine branches stuck in it, and a little goldfish swims in between them.  
      “Is that really safe for the fish?” Sam asks, distracted by this. Harley wraps his arms tighter around the vase.  
      “I am an awesome goldfish guardian!”  
      “Uh, okay. Listen, I have a – mission, for you guys.” Cory looks up in interest, and Harley nods eagerly. “Get a Christmas tree. Decorate it, don’t let it catch on fire again. And – put up lights and everything. Okay? Deck the place out.”  
      The two guys run out, already screaming the news to everyone else, and Dean stands up from the table, straightens out his jacket. “That to distract them while we do something?”  
      “No, that’s how to ward off an anti-Claus.”  
      “Oh, that fucker again?”  
      “Maybe. I’m not sure how to get rid of it entirely, but that’ll keep it away from this place, at least.”  
      “Have you solved the investigation?” they hear, Brock coming into the kitchen. “I feel as though the energies have calmed to peace and tranquility.”  
      “Uh, yeah, bro,” Dean says, claps Brock on the shoulder on the way out, “it’s all harmony and chill here. No need to worry.”  
      By nightfall, they’ve done an absurd amount of research, visited three graveyards, broken into two offices and flashed their FBI badges over fifteen times, and it’s still gotten them nowhere.  
      “I just don’t get it!” Dean throws down his book on the bed, flops backwards onto the pillows, “I mean, goddamnit, how do we find this guy? How do we kill him? He’s a fuckin’ legend!”  
      “I don’t know, Dean, there must be an answer here-”  
      “Hello,” they hear, and both of them jump. It’s Cas, suddenly standing in the middle of the room, wearing his trenchcoat as usual.         
      “Do you not know how to use a door?” Dean grouses.  
      “Do you want me to go outside and come back in? I can do that.”  
      “No, Cas.”  
      “Why’re you here, Cas?” Sam asks, with far more patience than Dean. He’s not hard to beat in that department.  
      “The anti-Claus,” Cas says, and Dean sits back up, Sam leaning forward on the couch.  
      “Do you know how to kill it?” Sam asks, as Dean says “have you found it?”  
      “It’s actually a descendant of the anti-Claus, the very last one. He died just before the murder, so his spirit was free for the anti-Claus to use.”  
      “Okay, and? Where’s the guy buried? That’ll stop it, right?”  
      “Yes.” Cas takes something from his pocket, a little red bag with a green bow tying it closed. “Speaking of this, I got you a Christmas present!”  
      “Uh… that is a very disturbing link to make, Cas,” Dean says, getting up carefully. “What did you get us?”  
      “I found his body, and I burned it. These are his ashes. Merry Christmas!”  
      “Cas,” Sam says slowly, “you… burned a body… and are giving us the ashes… for Christmas.”  
      “Yes. Did you get me something?”  
      “Uh,” Dean falters, still staring at the little giftbag, “nothing like that. Besides, Christmas isn’t for a week, you have to wait.”  
      “Okay, well. You can have yours early.” He hands Dean the bag, smiling proudly. Dean blinks at it.  
      “I can’t believe you got us a burned body’s ashes for Christmas.”  
      “Don’t you like it?” Cas asks, eyes wide with concern. Sam and Dean both manage to smile.  
      “We love it,” Sam assures him. “Greatest present we ever got.”  
      “Thanks, Cas,” Dean adds, “you, uh. Really bring the Christmas spirit. You’re like… a little pyro Christmas elf that’s slightly unhinged-”  
      “He means it’s very original,” Sam interrupts, “and we’re really thankful.”  
      Cas smiles at this, nods. “I’ll come back for my present on Christmas,” he says, and then he disappears again. Dean sinks down on the bed, wrinkles his nose when he looks at the bag in his hands.  
      “You ever gotten a dead body for Christmas, Sammy?”  
      “Yeah, Dean, about four times – of course not!”  
      “I’ve heard weirder from you, man.” Dean sets the bag down beside him, still eyeing it suspiciously. “I guess that was… technically… nice of him.”  
      “He has good intentions.”  
      “Yeah, he did put a bow on it.”  
      “What do you think he got everyone else? Not bodies also, I hope.”  
      “I don’t think he has any other friends, so we don’t have to worry.”  
      They both stare at the bag for a few moments, until Sam sighs. “So he’ll be back.”  
      “Yup.”  
      “We’ll have to have a present for him.”  
      “What do you get an angel for Christmas, exactly?” Dean asks, and Sam shrugs.  
      “A new trenchcoat…?”  
      Sam has been telling himself that one year, they’ll have a normal Christmas. Come Christmas eve, though, they’re tramping across the country and shopping for a trenchcoat and hoping they won’t get any surprise gifts again, and Sam just has to accept that the year of a normal Christmas will just not be this year.  



End file.
